


magnificat

by anthiese



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Pining, slight spoilers for what happens during the timeskip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 12:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20994464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthiese/pseuds/anthiese
Summary: Her eyes are red in Rhea's dreams. She isn’t afraid, though; she must’ve dreamt in red since before the earth was born.(Rhea, Byleth, and dreams of four colors)





	magnificat

**Author's Note:**

> ...mooooostly canon compliant. implied deer route, but could really be anywhere (thats not BE-E) with a bit of a deviation. this was originally for rarepair week (prompts crimson/azure/verdant/silver) but... im bad with dates.  
anyway. enjoy! and big thanks and kisses to mel @lentranced for all the help :3!

_ For behold, from henceforth: all generations shall call me blessed. _

_ For she that is mighty hath magnified me: and holy is her Name. _

-

Her eyes are red in Rhea’s dreams. The shape of Byleth’s body emerges from a sea of darkness, slithering up to her, glorious and whole, reaching for her with fingers more similar to claws, with those two open wounds on her face, eyes the color of blood. Rhea isn’t afraid, though; she’s always dreamt in red. She must’ve dreamt in red since before the earth was born. 

She isn’t afraid of those hands, either; they’re not how they’re supposed to be, and they’re not Byleth’s, but they’re not as sharp as they _might_ be. And they have every right to do as they please. 

She lets them dig into her chest, slice the soft flesh, run along the outline of her heart. She lets those fingers close around it, until every beat draws blood. It’s not enough, it’s never enough. 

“But it’s the path you chose,” says a voice behind those crimson eyes. “Is it not beautiful?” 

Rhea doesn’t answer. She looks down in shame. 

If it weren’t for that ghost, she would think it a beautiful dream indeed. 

-

When she’s awake, when she meets them, Byleth’s eyes are a deep azure. Rhea watches her move across the monastery, dark hair disheveled from the wind, the Sword of the Creator by her side. The most important thing in the world, carried around together with a fishing rod and a bundle of expensive tea leaves. 

She is… not what she’d expected. Not what she’s supposed to be. All the fears and the doubts in Rhea’s heart take shape into that woman, in the way she carries herself so freely and thoughtlessly, in battle as well as outside of it, in the way she prefers not to say a word, but somehow always finds herself outside Rhea’s office, to invite her for tea or to show her an old coin she found somewhere. 

And then Rhea looks up, and she meets those eyes, so large and so impossibly blue, and even like this, with that sword on Byleth’s side... somehow, those fears don’t matter. 

… 

They should. She knows they should. And yet she finds that more often than not, she forgets about anything else, and she’s a young girl again, losing herself to the depth of that blue, just for a few moments at a time, before reality sets back in, and she remembers her position, her history, herself. And she remembers her faults. 

She stares into the fireplace, at night, alone and naked and with ten thousand scars that insist on keeping on bleeding – and alone, and she remembers her faults, while the flames dance in dark blue tongues under her eyes. She remembers her faults, and she ends up thinking about the scriptures, about the lies and the truths, about cleansing flames and the Goddess’s judgement. 

She ends up thinking that maybe, if she stepped inside the fire, she’d feel immaculate again. 

But in the end, she never does. 

-

The shape of her dreams changes when Byleth does. 

Now, under daylight, it is pale green hair that Rhea sees flutter inside her office, and down the bridge to the cathedral, and into the depths of the earth, inside the Holy Tomb. It is bright verdant eyes that spring up in front of her, that stare into hers as Byleth says “I will not let them lay a hand on you.” It is the color of her success, the fruit of her labors. A monument to her faults. 

Now, when she dreams, the darkness is occupied by many bodies – piles of them, red, cut open – all spread around her, their blood pooling at her feet. She knows Jeralt’s is in there, as well as that of the Emperor, and of all the Emperors to have ever borne the crown. Then there’s Byleth’s body, face down on the ground, dripping red, drifting farther and farther away from Rhea, back into a sea of darkness. 

Claws dig into her shoulders, when she tries to move, when she tries to reach. 

“How many toys do you want to keep?” The voice whispers, as a claw closes around her heart, and another brushes her hair behind her ear. She’s being pushed down. Her eyes keep searching for the body. The ghost isn’t satisfied. 

“You should know your place,” comes the reminder. “Nobody else does.” 

Rhea has to nod. The red below her is so bright it’s almost blinding, but the morning always comes, over and over, even when she fails to keep the children safe, even after she sees that delicate green disappear beneath the rubble, even as she wakes up in a cell, to a wall decorated with vials of her blood. 

She’s quick to decide the dreams scare her less, and she finds herself wrapped in her ghost’s arms more often than she finds herself awake. Now the red is so bright it swallows the darkness, and Byleth’s body is nowhere to be found. If she could see the green, if she could only see... 

“Are you in love with her?” The voice taunts her, now. “What a mess you’ve made, child.” 

Rhea finds her voice, then, and a question that comes from her heart, something that she’s never understood. 

“Is love not a beautiful thing?” she asks. 

The ghost laughs. 

-

It lasts five years. Nothing like this has happened before, in her long, long life, but the feeling is familiar enough that she somehow knows she’s not going to die this time either. 

And she doesn’t. Strong arms wrap around her, and she’s pulled up, and soon she sees daylight again, and she’s standing in her room again, and it’s almost as if nothing has changed. And then she’s sitting in front of the fireplace again, staring into the flames, covered by nothing but a blanket and a myriad of open wounds. Alone. 

Until Byleth knocks at her door and lets herself in, verdant and shining like a summer field. 

“Rhea.” She says, before stepping between her and the fire, blocking it out of her sight. “I wanted to check on your health.” 

She almost has to laugh. She’s fine, she’s always been fine, all these years. 

“I beg you to not fuss over me, Byleth. You know I’m stronger than I may look.” 

The woman does something strange; she pouts. Then her green eyes meet Rhea’s, and she picks up the ghost of worry behind their blank exterior. It wouldn’t have been there, years ago. How much has changed? 

“Rhea,” she sighs. “It isn’t shameful to let people take care of you.” 

She doesn’t know what to say. When has there ever been someone to take care of her? And why would someone ever want to do it? Regardless of the answers, someone clearly does: Byleth sinks to her knees beside her, adjusts the blanket on her shoulders, and wordlessly begins checking the state of the bandages all over her body. Rhea wonders what she must think of her, after everything that’s happened: she’s never been this open, this exposed, this weak, and nobody has ever stayed enough to see her like this – even the young lord left as soon as he received the answers he needed. 

But Byleth is back, to check on someone so weak, so vile – Byleth is back for her. It feels like she can set her shame aside, for an instant. 

“I haven’t been feeling well.” She confesses, words heavy like chains as they leave her mouth. 

A hand brushes against her cheek, and Byleth nods, green eyes so close that Rhea feels like she might fall into them. She might just let herself do that. 

-

The winter of her life eventually gives in to the spring again, leaving behind a trail of snow. 

When Rhea returns, the canyon is white. She can’t remember ever seeing anything like this, in all her years. From atop the highest peak, she watches the silver snow stretch across the ocean of stone, once so dark, once the deepest shade of red. She watches it land on Byleth’s cape, on her hair, on her flushed cheeks – her eyes are bright, her eyes shine bright like stars every so often, and Rhea knows she’s smiling even when her face stays impassive. She smiles, too. 

“I hope you enjoy your stay, Byleth.” 

The woman looks down in wonder, to the flakes clinging to her gloves, and she nods. 

“I'm happy to be here with you... It’s beautiful.” She says. “It feels like home already.” 

Rhea simply feels like kissing her. Instead, she stays in silence, watching the snow pile over Zanado. There is time to do everything else. 

The color of her dreams changes slowly, but it changes. It feels to Rhea like every time she wakes up to the white of the snow, and the tender green of Byleth’s hair, the red in her mind dilutes, ever so slightly, until everything is colored in a pale pink. 

The shape of her dreams changes as well. After returning the Sword of the Creator to the Holy Tomb, the ghost’s voice grows quieter and quieter, the grip on her heart laxer, until one day she’s gone, together with the bodies. Now Rhea dreams of fields, instead. Of tombstones, or of swords, or of flowers, or of snow. The guilt, the memories never abandon her, they live on in those empty graveyards, in those bloodied battlefields. 

But not when the morning comes. The dawn pulls her up with shaky hands from the depths of her dreams, into a glimmering, silent world, into a modest house, a small bed. There’s no crown for her to wear, no scriptures waiting to be read, and she’s nothing but a young woman waking up in a house she built for her family, in the arms of someone she loves. 

She always wakes up first, to the first chirping of the birds outside, the first rays of sun breaking through the window. She watches the spectacle in front of her in silence, as if the slightest disturbance might destroy it forever. And every day, without fail, the light reflects on Byleth’s pale hair, her heavy-lidded eyes as she stirs awake, and she shines like silver. Rhea’s arms reach under the covers, and she holds her close. There’s so much time to do everything else. 

**Author's Note:**

> im getting closer to the skip in BE and... oh it's going to hurt. i really just want rhea to enjoy her retirement with her wife!!!!!!!!! so thank you for reading this cuz my tender little heart is there!!!!!


End file.
